


Spiderbites, Blini, and a Red Ford Pickup Truck.

by Segismunda



Category: The Avengers (2012), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: F/F, Fluff, M/M, SO MUCH FLUFF, Stony - Freeform, Superfamily, blackpepper - Freeform, i swear im punk, ironsheild
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-08-01
Updated: 2013-09-21
Packaged: 2017-12-22 02:05:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,732
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/907591
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Segismunda/pseuds/Segismunda
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One morning Peter wakes up and accidentally destroys like 70% of the objects he touches. His parents aren't worried about the expenses -after all, when one of your parents owns Stark Industries and the other fights for freedom with a red, white and blue death frisbee, money isn't much of an object- but they are more than a little worried about their baby boy growing up and joining the family business. Especially when all they want to do right now is unwind in Peter's godmothers' house in Arizona and cook russian pancakes with Natasha and Pepper. And especially when Peter keeps making costume choices that they disapprove of.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which breakfasts are eaten and plans are discussed.

"I think I'd better go check on Peter," said Steve to his husband over breakfast.

  
There was no response from Tony's side of the table. His toast was sitting unbuttered, cooling and neglected on his plate in front of him and his favorite coffee mug was untouched. He was doing something on his tablet.

  
"Tony," said Steve, the worry line between his eyebrows giving way to an expression of exasperation. "You haven't eaten anything. At least drink your coffee. And I'm worried about Peter?"

  
"I'm not hungry right now. I'm busy. There's nothing wrong with Peter. What's wrong with Peter?" Tony fired out, finally looking up from the screen.

  
"I wish you wouldn't be on that at breakfast. We're a family. We should spend time together. And you're being grumpy. Why don't you eat something?" Asked Steve petulantly.

  
Tony flipped the leather cover over the screen, slapped his tablet face down onto the table and gave his husband a bright grin. Seizing a slice of toast he began buttering it vigorously and said, "I'm sorry baby. I was just reading something interesting. Osbourne, you know him, bit strange, into science? Has the corporation thing? Not as big as Stark Industries, of course. But still. They're doing some very interesting experiments-" here he paused to take a bite out of his toast and washed it down with coffee- "on genetically modifying animals to create various resources. Biotech can be pretty cool, for an impure science. This coffee is lukewarm."

  
Steve quirked an eyebrow. "You should have drunk it earlier. But don't let Peter hear you talk that way about biology. You're living with a biologist and photographer and a painter. Impurity abounds."

  
"It certainly does sometimes!" said Tony flashing Steve his best salacious grin. "Last night, for example-"

  
"Tony, please," Said Steve, smiling in spite of himself. "I'm worried about Peter."

  
"I don't see why. He's a teenager and it's 10:30 in the morning on a Saturday. We're not gonna see him for another two hours, at least."

  
"He looked kind of ill yesterday, and went to bed early. His field trip must have worn him out. He was very excited for it."

  
"Field trip?" Asked Tony. "He probably faked it so he could sneak out to go to a party. You know how kids are."

  
"Wouldn't JARVIS have told us if he had left?"

  
"Nah, every kid deserves to climb out his window to go meet a girl occasionally. Peter lives in a skyscraper with the security levels of a mid-level prison." Tony snorted.

  
"Well," said Steve, raising his eyebrows and sitting back in his chair. "I'm so glad you felt able to share it with me the moment you decided on that."

  
"Gotta give the kid an even playing field. JARVIS, did Peter sneak out last night?" he addressed to the room at large. "And do we have any pancakes?"

  
JARVIS' smooth, clipped voice filled the air. "Peter did not leave his rooms all night, Sir. And pancakes can be available in just a few minutes."

  
"Thanks, JARVIS," responded Tony. "Hmm. Seems you were right. Now I come to think about it, I really can't see Peter sneaking out in the middle of the night. He's a good kid. He's a nerd. How did we of all people raise a nerd?"

  
"Well, I guess that considering that we're both nerds, it wasn't much of a stretch," smiled Steve.

  
"Me?!" exclaimed Tony. "I'm not a nerd! I'm a scientist! Stop grinning at me like that! Bruce- now Bruce is a nerd. I'm a genius."

  
"Suure, Tony, whatever you say," laughed Steve. "How old were you when you got into University?"

  
"Okay, maybe I'm a little bit of a nerd. But you're not a nerd. You're Captain America. And you're so-" Tony broke off, flapping his toast in the direction of Steve's body.

  
"Just because I have the nicest ass in the U.S. Military doesn't mean I can't be a nerd," Steve rolled his eyes. "The two things aren't mutually exclusive. Bruce, for example. You admitted he was a nerd? He has a very nice butt."

  
Tony put on his most serious face and leaned both elbows on the table. "Steve, I am deeply, utterly shocked and appalled that you could talk about a mutual friend like that in front of your husband. Is that the Captain America way? No, It is not."

  
Steve squinted at him across the table.

  
"Oh, all right," Tony relented. "I give up. He does have a nice butt. And I always forget that before the super serum you were just a little skinny ass kid. And adorable skinny ass kid, but still skinny ass."

  
Steve pointedly ignored this last remark. "Well, I'm still worried about Peter. But you're right- I'll wait a few more hours. But he's supposed to come with us tonight."

  
"Tonight? and thanks, JARVIS," added Tony as a plate pancakes arrived at the table via hatch door. "What's happening tonight?"

  
"Pepper's coming over to go over some Stark Industries business with you, and she's bringing Natasha. They'll be staying a couple weeks." Pepper was still the glue that held Stark Industries together, but she had handed the job of holding Tony Stark together off mostly to Steve. Besides, she had other priorities now. She and Natasha had a big airy house out on Arizona, all blond wood and wide windows with sweeping views of pale desert and bloody sunsets. They had a tabby cat, a wolfhound, a Lockheed Model-10 Electra airplane, and an incredibly beat-up red pickup truck. They came and stayed in Pepper's apartments at Stark Tower a few times a year.

  
"Why did no one tell me this?" Tony sighed, sloshing his now-almost- cool coffee around in his mug.

  
"I did tell you. When Pepper phoned me. And then when Natasha emailed me. And then yesterday at dinner."

  
"You didn't!"

  
"Yes, I actually did."

  
"Wait, how long are they staying?" said Tony, giving up.

  
"A week or two. They weren't specific. Pepper needs to get some stuff done with the company-"

  
"-Corporation."

  
"I don't see the difference. But I thought now would be a good time for Pepper and Nat to be around. I've got to go up to Washington for a few days, and Pepper can take care of you while Natasha can keep an eye on Peter. Those two get along like a house on fire." Said Steve, leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms comfortably.

  
"It scares me how well they get along," said Tony. Then he added defensively, "And I don't need looking after."

  
Steve raised a single eyebrow. Tony rolled his eyes. Steve smirked. Tony picked up a pancake and threw it, frisbee-style, at him. It caught him on the side of the face and Steve snatched it out of the air as it bounced off. "You're so lucky it didn't have syrup on it. So, so, lucky."

  
"Grumpy," said Tony, shaking his head. "How're they getting here?"

  
"They're flying over. Natasha's taking Valentina, Pepper, American Airways." Valentina was Natasha's beloved plane, the same make as the one Amelia Earhart famously flew, and named after Valentina Tereshkova, first woman in space, and incidentally, a Russian. "Pepper says she prefers no turbulence, putting her feet up, and getting waited upon. Natasha made no comment," Steve concluded.

  
Tony grunted through a mouthful of pancake. "Sounds like them."

  
"Oh, and they invited us out to their place in Arizona after I get back from the Capital and you and Pepper are done with whatever here. I think it'd be lovely- It'd be nice for Peter to have his birthday with his godmothers, and the light out there's amazing. I could get some painting done. You could get some rest, and we could pretend to be a normal family for a bit."

  
"Yes. We could have some quality time. Disconnect. I'm really done with the board of directors right now. Seriously."

  
"Then it's settled? I'll let them know." Steve stood up and carefully pushed his chair into the table. "I've got to hit the gym and get through some paperwork. Eat up!" He planted a kiss on Tony's hairline as he went past.

  
Tony turned around partially and watched him make is way to the door. "Nice butt!" he called.

  
"Love you too," spat back Steve, not turning around, but Tony, grinning at Steve's retreating back, could hear the smile in it.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Peter goes through a lot.

Peter was first aware of the thin slots of dagger-bright light slicing in through the blinds. He stayed still, his eyes slitted open, puffy and sleep-crusted, and contemplated a feeling not dissimilar to that of a red-hot icicle being rammed in through his eyes and scraped against the inside of the back of his skull.

The second thing he was aware of was the taste in his mouth. It was as if a small hairy rodent had crawled in in the night and died. His tongue felt diseased and too large for his mouth. Experimentally, he moved it against his teeth. That just made it worse. He tried parting his lips and sucking air in through his mouth, which momentarily improved things, but when he exhaled he could smell it.

The third thing he was aware of was the soreness on his neck. He lay there, face pressed into his pillow, long, lanky, knobbly body twisted up in uncomfortably warm sheets, unmoving, wondering why it hurt so much. The idea came to him that he might have a crick. He arched and rolled his head, but it was not a muscle pain. What he had just been dreaming came to him imperceptibly, but in a rush, as these things do. Campy yet terrifying vampires had chased him through improbable hollywoodesque crypts, strewn with waxy dripping candles and spiderwebs thick as the fibrous plastic fluff they sell as halloween decorations.

Spiders. It was coming back to him. The field trip, getting away from the group. The glowing lab. Little round bodies and neat legs that moved like clockwork. A sharp pain in his neck. He remembered feeling worse and worse, and coming home and falling into bed. On second thought, it had been a really bad idea not telling anyone. What if it had killed him? He imagined for a second what it would feel like for him to wake up and lie here and wonder if he was dead. People did that a lot, fiction would have you believe. Peter had doubts about afterlives.

It occurred to him to check if the bite had swollen, so he pulled his sleep-weak hand out of a tight knot of bedding and gingerly felt at his neck. There it was. It hurt when he poked it, but it wasn't by far unbearable. It seemed to be no bigger than a largish mosquito bite. Smaller than last night. He let his hand fall back on the bed, in front of his face. it was soft and warm-looking, printed with pink lines and folds from the sheets. He watched his fingers lazily curl and uncurl like some undersea creature for a moment, and then thought better of consciousness and rolled over, grabbing an end of sheet in both hands and hauling on it to bring it over his shoulders. It ripped with a muted scream of threads.  
"What the fuck?" were the only words that sprung to mind, so he said him.

He sat up and hauled the sheet out from under his duvet to inspect it. It tore again at his touch, running all the way to the seams on either side. "Fucking hell," he said, scrubbing at his left eye with the back of his wrist. He sat for a moment, looking at the ruined sheet on his lap.

"Fuckit," he mumbled as he lay back down, kicking the sheet off the side of his bed and -gently- pulling the duvet up over his head until only his face was exposed. He was asleep almost immediately.

He woke again, an hour later, to the pressing summons of his bladder. This time he woke rapidly, snapping upright and springing out of bed in the direction of his bathroom. He had completely forgotten the shredded sheet on the floor beside his bed, caught his foot and was tripped headlong. He crashed into the leg of his desk, which crumpled like tin foil, toppling schoolbooks, pens, dirty dishes, fast food containers, and his desktop computer onto his prone body. He lay there for a moment, covered in detritus, staring at a balled up sock in the dusty corner under the remains of the desk. His lips silently formed the words "What the hell?"

Staggering to his feet and shedding pencils and empty chip bags, he carefully made his way over to his bathroom, putting his bare feet down with exaggerated care. He reached the door and carefully grabbed the handle. He felt it dent under his fingers. He crouched down, shaking his head, and examined the finger-shaped hollows. With his thumb and forefinger he gingerly grasped the doorknob and turned. The door clicked open.

Still walking carefully, he scooted over to the toilet and relieved himself. When he went to flush, the flusher came off in his hand. "GOD DAMMIT!" he bellowed. "JARVIS!" he yelled. "WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON?"

JARVIS' smooth voice filled the bathroom. "It appears that you have broken your toilet, desk table, and computer monitor, crushed your doorknob and ripped your bed sheet, sir."  
"Yeah, I might have noticed, thanks for that." Peter muttered.

"I'm sorry sir, I'll get working on repairs once you go to breakfast." JARVIS responded in tones undisturbed by Peter's sarcasm. "I have noted that you would be better off with a shower. But do try to refrain from breaking that. Your father would prefer that you didn't disrupt the plumbing system."

"Oh for..." Said Peter. He stopped himself. Being rude to JARVIS led to things like the shower going cold suddenly, food the wrong temperature, very slow elevators. His father had programmed that in just to annoy him. Anyhow, this wasn't JARVIS' fault. This was just a case of supreme clumsiness.

Except it wasn't. He paused with his shirt over his head, mind racing. He had seen Steve - Once Papa, now Pop to him, Tony was Daddy, now Dad - do similar things in moments of great stress. Peter knew that he had super strength, knew all about the soldier serum and Captain America and the suspended animation, they had never hid it from him, but Steve had always been very careful not to show super strength outside of his Captain America suit. Even so, he hadn't succeeded entirely. Peter knew that since Steve had woken up he had become slowly disillusioned with the way the country's politics and foreign policy had been going. In the last few years, with the awful leaden sinking feeling that comes with realizing that what you always viewed as solid and constant is actually not as stable as you thought, he had seen his father go through some serious doubt and internal struggle. When Steve was upset he would go to the gym and get it out through training, but sometimes he would come back still upset and would shatter a glass in his hand, or break a cupboard door or rip his clothing. He would always laugh it off, but you could tell he wasn't comfortable with bringing his job home.

Another thought struck Peter, one so exciting that he tore the collar of his shirt as he pulled it off. A glance in the mirror confirmed it and his heart leapt up into his throat. Somehow, despite what his parents had said, and despite his distaste for all things Lamarckian, he must have inherited some of the super soldier serum from Steve. That was the only possible explanation.

Peter was actually biologically descended from both his parents. A breakthrough new form of biotechnology created in the Bannertech Labs, fronted by Peter's 'uncle' Bruce, was able to take DNA from two XY-chromosome individuals and create a fully functioning zygote that was then implanted into a surrogate mother. But Bruce Banner, a man whose scientific abilities were on par with Tony's engineering skills, had assured his friends that their child would be born entirely without any form of superpower. But apparently not.

The change Peter saw in the mirror was nowhere near as drastic as the before-and-after pictures of his father, but it was there. He was still lean and gangly, but there was definite toning that hadn't been there yesterday. He had pecs. And sort of had a six-pack. Maybe a four-pack. He turned around and saw that the same had happened to his back. Quickly shucking off his pants he carefully stood on the toilet lid to get a full-body view. His legs weren't as chicken-skinny as before. His butt wasn't quite as flat. He noted with a degree of regret, however, that whatever it was hadn't altered the size of anything non-muscular. He flexed and tried turning round to get a view of his back, but his foot was stuck to the toilet lid. He was already turning and heard a crack as the lid parted company with the rest of the toilet. Then he was falling off and it was still stuck to his foot, so he put his arms out and slapped his palms onto the tile wall and then he wasn't crumpled on the floor as he expected, he was standing on it. His left foot still attached the the toilet lid, and his palms on the wall at on either side of his head. Oh, and he was buck naked.

Peter tried to pull his hands off the wall but they wouldn't come. He tried stepping on the toilet lid with his other foot to get leverage to pull it off, but then somehow his other foot stuck too, and in his frantic attempts at kicking he lost his balance and the toilet lid started sliding backwards out from under him. His hands wouldn't unstick so he was hanging by his arms with his feet way out behind him and the only thing he was sure of was that he sure as hell wasn't calling anyone to help him while he was in this position. A sort of claustrophobic panic began to well up inside him.

Slowly, cautiously, he worked his feet forward until he got his knees under him. The tiles in the wall were cold against the underside of his arms and his chest. He rested his cheek on them, closed his eyes and drew a deep breath. Peter didn't know what was happening, and he mostly wanted flail and scream and yell for JARVIS to do something, but there was a smaller but vocal part of him that didn't. It was telling him that whatever this was, it was something Big, and that he should calm down and think his way through this. Peter was good at thinking his way through things. He was good at science - curious and interested in the world around him, but organized and methodical, and both his curiosity and ability to think things through were beginning to overcome his shock and growing panic.

He opened his eyes. The tiles were large and light blue, and laced with tiny decorative cracks under the glazed finish. Keeping still and hardly daring to breathe, and jerked his hand as hard and fast as he could. Nothing happened. It hurt like hell, and he pictured himself finally escaping but leaving a layer or so of skin stuck to the bathroom wall in bloody handprints. Better not think about that. Better try something else. He reshuffled around on his knees, inhaled shakily and concentrated very hard on slowly, slowly, slowly lifting up the baby finger on his other hand. It came easily, no more painfully than peeling a strip of masking tape off your palm. With his finger came a great surge joy and relief and it was all he could to keep his hand steady. Just a couple minutes later both hands were free and and he was just removing the broken toilet lid from his foot.

At first he was leery of touching anything else for fear of sticking, but he managed to get dressed -very gently- without any problems. He had sort of gone off the idea of a having a shower and stood for a minute admiring his muscles through his t-shirt when it struck him that he wasn't wearing his glasses. The thought was followed in quick succession with the realization that he wasn't squinting. The world was crystal clear. Clearer, even, than normal. A suspicion growing inside him, he snatched his glasses off his bedside table and slapped them on. He smirked at his blurry reflection for a moment and ran his fingers through his admittedly greasy hair. His glasses had been the bane of his existence since he got them in the third grade. His father, possibly thinking back on his own education, insisted that Peter go to a public school under the name of Peter Parker, so that Peter had never had the reputation of his fathers to influence his classmates. He was a good student and generally liked school, but while he had friends he had also been picked on by bullies. Not overwhelmingly, but fairly consistently. In middle school Peter had convinced his parents to let him go to a private school as Peter Philip Stark-Rogers, but he had hated it and missed his friends so much that he was back in Midtown Junior High after Christmas.

It was with no small amount of delight that Peter punched the lenses out of his glasses with a fingertip, and it was with the hint of a swagger that he headed out of his bedroom door into the corridor. He paused outside the elevator, thought better of it, and galloped off in the direction of the emergency door that led to the staircase. Peter's bedroom was near the bottom of the private quarters section of the tower, and the kitchen was at the top.

Peter started up the beige and echoing staircase at a normal walking pace, but increased to a trot, and then to a run, and then he was pounding up the stairs, flying along, faster than he could have imagined possible. A huge grin spread over Peter's face. He experimentally kicked off the wall as he turned a corner and launched himself wildly into the air, slamming into ceiling and falling into the stairs at right up at the top of the flight. Surprisingly, it didn't hurt at all, it just made him even more elated. The next leap off a corner got him over the flight of stairs and right onto the landing, instincts he didn't know he had kicking in mid-flight, making him duck and roll and land on his feet. Admittedly the rest of him kept going and he fell over, but you have to admit that it was a start.

Peter was having the time of his life. He hadn't ever been good at sports, and since puberty had felt that he had been carrying an unmanageable and unnecessary foot or so of limb at the end of his arms and legs. But this was magic. This was like flying. He finally felt like his body was properly his, and he could do fantastic things with it. But nothing so far had prepared him for what happened next.

He must have kicked off too hard, too high, like the first time, because he hit the ceiling again. But this time he had his hands out in front of him and they stuck where the landed. The rest of his body just kept going and he smashed into the ceiling before swinging back and dangling awkwardly from his palms. At first he was sure that the reason he wasn't really in pain was the shock from a broken nose, wrists, ribs and probably a concussion but as he swung gently back and forth he realized that he wasn't actually hurt. This was, of course, a very good start, but he hadn't the faintest idea how he was going to get down.

He kicked his legs a bit and swung from side to side, but the staircase was too wide for him to reach a wall with his feet. He tried putting weight more on one arm than another and prying his other hand off. That didn't work. Peter considered calling JARVIS but JARVIS would tell his fathers and then there'd be a Scene and he wasn't at all sure he wanted to tell anyone about all this quite yet. He experimentally tried to do a chin up, and found it incredibly easy. Heartened, he brought first one leg up and then the other and walked his sneakered feet along the ceiling towards him until he was upside down and got scared that his feet might slip between his arms and he'd do what his grade eight P.E. teacher in their dreaded gymnastic unit had called 'skinning the cat'. He swung back down, but it had given him an idea.

He toed his shoes off easily, but taking off socks with no hands required patience and time. Peter's shoulders were getting a little stiff by the time that he'd worked off his second sweaty and clinging sock, and with some trepidation he brought his right leg up, then his left. They stuck.

He held his breath. This was it. If this had been a stupid idea he'd have to call JARVIS and explain to his parents why and how he was hanging from his hands and feet halfway up a flight in the emergency staircase. And if it worked - well, he didn't want to jinx himself by thinking about it. By thinking at all. He shut his eyes and just went.

And boy did he go. He only opened his eyes when his head smacked into the wall, and then the full weight of the fact that he had crawled upside down in bare hands and feet along a ceiling hit him. He stayed there a moment, awkwardly splayed with his head against the wall, and a smile of disbelief spread dreamily across his face. Then he shook himself and turned round and scuttled gleefully on upwards as fast as he could go, leaving nothing but a pair of discarded shoes and socks halfway up a flight of stairs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To be continued but honest to god i need some sleep now


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finally some blackpepper!

Pepper's flight arrived before Natasha. She was waiting in the glossy Sheltair lounge in the Private Aircraft section of JFK airport sifting through some paper work in her lap when she heard Natasha fly over. Natasha's Lockheed Model-10 Electra had propellers, and Pepper could always pick out their sound over the roar of the jet engines. She watched as Natasha expertly maneuvered the little glittering plane and landed her with her customary perfect technique and lack of flourish. Valentina was all-aluminum, just like Earhart's, and polished till it hurt to look at her. The little paint she had was the same as well, but Natasha had wanted it in black, instead of the traditional red. "We're both redheads. Your truck is red. That damn cat is red. My plane isn't going to be red too," Natasha had said.

With a feeling of pride, Pepper noticed how the man at the desk, the other businesspeople in the lounge, and the people on the tarmac all watched the little craft with varying degrees of visible admiration. The feeling swelled as Natasha completed her taxi over to a hangar and leapt out behind the wing onto the tarmac, bag slung over one shoulder, and strode over to a cluster of people in neon vests. Pepper watched for a moment, and then hid her smile in paperwork. 

By the time Natasha stalked into the lounge, (black boots, black jeans, black t-shirt, black leather jacket, black bag), Pepper had everything stowed away in her briefcase. Her sleek wheeled suitcase was beside her, she had finished her coffee, eaten a mint, and the latest copy of The Economist was rolled up under her arm. She stood up to greet her wife.

"Have a nice flight?" She asked.

"It was okay," said Natasha. "How was yours?"

"Quiet. Comfortable. I had a glass of wine and breathed a lot of stale air." answered Pepper, wrinkling her nose. "The usual."

Natasha leaned in for a quick kiss. She smelled of cold air and engine and leather. "I don't want to say 'I told you so,'" she smiled briefly. "But I did tell you so."

"Yes you did," laughed Pepper. "But you don't serve chilled Alsatian Pinot Gris on Valentina."

Natasha rolled her eyes. "And they say the Russians like to drink!"

"My daddy was a Texan," Pepper responded primly. "And babe, the limo's waiting. Let's get out of here."

It really was a limo. Not an airport taxi, but an actual stretch limo. Long and sleek and black, with the Stark Industries logo emblazoned on it in tasteful charcoal grey. That was Pepper's doing. Tony had wanted gold. Natasha rolled her eyes as she saw it, but she didn't put much feeling into it. Pepper knew that secretly Natasha was fond of Tony, in her way, but was very careful not to let him know. Tony, on his part, was mildly terrified of Natasha. 

Pepper had smiled indulgently when she saw the limo. As much as she liked Arizona and her rattly old pickup, it was nice sometimes to be back in the hustle and bustle. And in vehicles with shocks. Her red pickup was actually the one her father had driven since she was a baby, it was the one she'd learned to drive in, where she'd kissed a girl for the first time and a boy for the first time. She'd gotten her first driving ticket, gotten into her first fender bender. Her mom had been rushed to the hospital in it, and her mom, holding her bundled up in a blanket had been driven home in it. It had been sold when her dad died, and she'd been so busy with the funeral arrangements, and the economy, and Tony's struggle with depression, that she'd lost track of it in the melee. She'd mentioned it to Nat once or twice, and there were pictures of it in the family albums, but it had been a complete surprise when Natasha had driven up in it on their anniversary. She'd had it repainted and reupholstered, but Natasha had fixed the engine and radio herself. Apparently she'd tracked it down in a junkyard outside San Antonio. 

Inside the limo, the driver had turned on the multicoloured, flashing lights that covered the ceiling. After a beseeching look from Natasha, Pepper pressed down the intercom button on her armrest and convinced the driver to turn them off. He eventually obliged, but put on the playlist Tony had specially made for her years ago. The opening of a Runaways song thumped through the speakers. Laughing a little, Pepper covered her face with a hand. "I hate Tony, sometimes," she said to the world in general, and then to Natahsa, "I'll get him to turn it off."

"Off?" she asked. "You love this song. If I remember correctly, it brings you back to your punk days in New York." She smiled at her wife.

"Just because the only music you listened to growing up were patriotic Soviet marches doesn't mean you get to be snide about other people's taste." They were shouting a little over the music, so Pepper dug around for the remote control to lower the volume.

Natasha ruffled Pepper's perfectly cut and styled hair as she leaned forward, rummaging. "You were a very cute riot grrl with your hair cut off and all covered in eyeliner."

"I was too old for riot grrl and too young for true punk. And don't touch my hair. You'll mess it up." Pepper answered, finally turning down the volume. 

"Just be amazed that I actually learned the term 'riot grrl', old lady."

"Old lady? I like that! Not everyone has the benefit of Soviet super serum!"

Natasha looked at her unblinkingly for a moment. She had a wide array of unreadable expressions, but Pepper knew her better than anybody and could tell she was hiding a smile.

"So what's the matter with the corporation that Tony needs you for so badly?" Asked Natasha, changing the subject.

"Everything, honestly," Pepper smiled briefly. "Mostly I can work online from home, now that the actual taking care of Tony part of the job is in Steve and Peter's capable hands. But strange things have been happening with the finances, and we're had reports of some items very like the products being worked on in the Stark Labs showing up on the black market all over the world."

Natasha's forehead crinkled. Pepper, who was mostly occupied with worrying about the corporation, had a brief flash of the joy and awe she had felt the first time Natasha had shown any anxiety or weakness around her. The fleeting feeling was there and gone in a moment.

"That sounds serious," said Natasha, slowly. "You think someone is leaking blueprints and tampering with the money? Nothing like that has happened since Obadiah."

"It's too early to tell. It could be one person, or an organization. Hell, it could be two separate issues. Or it could just be a fluke. We don't know." There was a little crease between Pepper's eyebrows.

Natasha reached over and laced her fingers through Pepper's. She leaned back into her padded seat and closed her eyes. "It'll all work out. You're a pro. I'll help as much as I can, if you need me. Don't worry, babe."

Babe. Natasha never used Russian words of affection. Pepper had once wished that she did. She spent a few weeks early on wondering how to breach the subject when one day at work she was making herself a coffee when it struck her that maybe Natasha know any Russian words of affection. Tony had helped her clean up the coffee and asked her why she looked like she was going to cry, and that night Pepper held onto Natasha all the way till morning.


End file.
